


How Dru Got a Lovely Feather Hat

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Carnival, F/M, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2019-10-20 22:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17630723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: Spike/Drusilla go to a carnival and Spike gets more than he bargained for.





	How Dru Got a Lovely Feather Hat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waddiwasiwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waddiwasiwitch/gifts).



> This is for **waddiwasiwitch**. I hope you enjoy the silly little thing! 
> 
> Spike/Dru, naturally, not very dark, save the usual vampires-being-vampires. :)

Texas, 1934

Spike and Dru tore along the big, open country in a stolen Black Mariah. They’d had a ball in Los Angeles, but then prohibition ended and all the good speakeasies closed down. What kind of fun was doing something LEGAL?

Spike already hated the 30s. The twenties had been fantastic. He had thoughts of heading back to Europe. The jazz scene was still cooking in Germany, he heard.

“Dull, flat, lifeless,” Drusilla hung out the window of the car like she couldn’t support her weight. “There’s nothing here but stars.”

“I thought you liked the stars, pet?”

Drusilla covered her face with her hands. “There’s nothing to block them out. They’re shouting at me.”

Spike squinted. “Hey now – there’s some light over there.” A soft glow hung on the horizon, south of the road, flickering and many-colored. Spike turned onto the next road, though it was dirt.

Drusilla’s eyes got wide. “Danger!” She said.

“My favorite thing,” Spike replied, grinning. She fell against his side, giggling.

Soon enough they saw the giant wheel standing out from the flat horizon, decked with uneven lights. Spike sped up. He loved carnivals, and a run-down carnival in the middle of nowhere was even better.

Spike plowed the Mariah into a flimsy wooden sign. “Hey!” A rough-looking man shouted. Spike ignored him, hopping out to extend a hand to his lovely lady.

Drusilla swayed gracefully, eyes full of reflected lights. “A wheel to take us to the stars. Oh, let’s ride it, Spike, before it breaks behind Catherine.”

“Anything for you, my love.”

The Ferris Wheel looked like it was held together with baling wire and twine, and the structure wobbled a bit as their seat rose. Spike laughed. Dangerous: just the way he liked things. Drusilla’s hair flew in the wind and they had a great view of the lit-up tents and the vast nothing of central Texas. There were a few low buildings off in one direction – the town that had drawn the carnival.

Drusilla slid into his lap, her flimsy, gauzy dress bunching around her thighs. Her eyes made the modest fair lights into a galaxy of delight. He thought about telling her that, or writing it into a poem, but then her mouth was on his and there were more pressing things to think about.

A pleasant warmth built between them, contrasting with the chill wind, and the car started to rock, and then swing heartily as they wrestled. It shuddered and groaned, and so did Drusilla. She kneeled up over him, her head haloed in electric glory. “Naughty, wicked Spike. You’ll have a spanking before sunup.”

He ran his hands up her sides. “Promises, promises.” He drew her down for another kiss.

The Ferris wheel halted, and their car squealed as it swung hard back and forth. Spike looked over Drusilla’s shoulder to see a rather irate ride operator.

He wore dirty coveralls and a metal brace on one knee. He had the rough hands of a murderer, but still looked liable to blush or faint from the display Spike and Drusilla made. “Get out. You’re lucky I’m not having you arrested.”

Drusilla slid off his lap with a laugh. Spike saluted. They were the only two free people in a world still afraid of sex. Together they marched triumphantly through scandalized faces. Spike barked at a sour-looking matron in dirty calico and laughed at her three-foot jump.

The carnival was too desperate for business to run them out. Spike bought some popcorn. It was hot and salty and he and Drusilla took turns catching the kernels in the air, chewing open-mouthed and laughing.

Drusilla stopped in the middle of the midway, leaning forward on her toes, arms out like a dancer miming surprise before her turn and leap. “Oh, look, Spike! A fortune teller.”

A scrawny woman stood in front of a fake gypsy wagon, staring at them with a stern, worried expression. Something about her made Spike suspect she was more trouble than she was worth. (Though if she legitimately had the sight, the daft girl should be shutting up her wagon tight and hiding the welcome mat.) Spike sighed. “Love, you always end up telling the fortune teller her future, and the dozy cow cries her eyes out. It’s getting repetitive, and those birds are all gristle, usually.”

Drusilla gave him the saddest big eyes, but he distracted her with a little girl who’d lost her mummy. Dru was so good with children. She calmed the girl and took her by the hand and led her to a dark corner where she snapped her neck.

They then were denied entry to the nudie show – apparently they didn’t want ladies inside. Spike gave them a full litany on the backwardness of their opinions, but Drusilla simply curled one finger under the tent-guard’s chin and calmly told him she was an honorable-looking gentleman.

The ruse was more than blown as they waltzed to the music inside the tent, but by that point, everyone must have assumed there was a good reason why a woman had been let in. The tent smelled deliciously of frustration, desire, and shame. It had soaked into the canvas and the straw like animal musk.

They made love in some nearby tent – just stumbled about, laughing and dancing, until they found a slit in the canvas and tumbled into an area full of costumes and props. It smelled of long-use and desperation, but there were plenty of soft things to make a bed from, and the light seeped through the worn and spotted canvas, filling the area with a buttery fairy-glow.

Drusilla found a feather boa among the fripperies and twined it around her naked body as she writhed over him. She seemed even more mad than usual, eyes fever-bright and hands headless, gripping him hard enough to bruise even as she kissed him and babbled loving nonsense. They chased their completion like two colliding trains, off the tracks and glorying in their violence.

Coming down felt like waking up from a fever dream. Spike picked bits of cherry-red feathers from Drusilla’s sweat-matted hair as she nuzzled against his side.

“Let’s always be at carnivals,” Drusilla said. “We can ride one to the next and the next, and travel the whole of the world.”

“I suspect even you’d grow tired of it, pet.” Spike kissed her forehead. “Come on, we have to get to someplace with proper ceilings before sunrise, and you’ve gone and destroyed your lovely dress.”

Drusilla found a tattered remnant of the gauzy silk and held it up over her smile. “That was you, my bad doggie.”

“Was it?” Spike bit his lower lip and tried to look (badly) contrite. Drusilla smacked him lightly with the fine, beaded rag that had been her dress-back. He gallantly kicked over a box of costume parts. “Let’s find something fetching for you to wear to the car, shall we? All new for my princess.”

Drusilla’s coy smirk showed she knew better than to think a dive into a carnival’s well-used costume trunk could replace an evening gown, but she did start dragging bits and bobs out and draping them over her body. She never could resist the allure of the random.

Spike found his trousers and was in the process of stepping into them when a little girl pulled back the tent-flap and pointed at Drusilla. “She’s the one. She’s the bad lady.”

The dour-faced fortune-teller and a gangly young man entered the tent after the child. The man had a stout piece of wood in his hands. Spike had only time enough to pull his pants up the rest of the way and say, “Wait – isn’t that the tot you ate?” before the young man swung for his head.

Spike ducked and picked Drusilla up around her waist, hauling her onto his shoulder as he ran for the other side of the tent.

“Oh,” said a delighted Drusilla, “I do so love it when they come back!”

It was the same little girl – her gingham dress soaked with blood. She’d had her neck broken and her blood drained, and Spike didn’t want to stick around to find out what had changed those into less than permanent states.

Drusilla giggled and squealed as he tore through the canvas and raced across the shabby carnival. She smelled of moth-balls and tin sequins, a gypsy scarf and a feathered hat her only garments.

Spike stopped to wave at the Ferris Wheel operator and slapped Drusillas bare bum just to see him sputter and turn red.

As soon as they were safely burning rubber down the gravel road, Spike said, “New rule, pet: no more carnivals.”

Drusilla leaned out the window, her bare legs resting across Spike’s lap. The hat - a cloche tightly layered with fuscia-dyed pheasant feathers - rested on her knee. She looked up at the stars, her hair whipping across her face. “I quite liked it. Let’s do that again.”


End file.
